A Mountain, Shaped Like an Arrowhead
by 0 Roger Wilco
Summary: Arya is feeling a bit low so the Hound brings her a gift.


The Hound and Arya finds a tavern. She is pissed off so he brings her a lil gift.

* * *

The Hound sat down with his back up against the wall. Unwilling to take the vulnerable position opposite, Arya shuffled onto the bench beside him and waited for the barmaid to approach.

She was a young woman of about seven-and-ten, pretty and reasonably clean, and she was defenceless to hide the horror in her eyes when she saw the Hound's face.

"Wh-what will it be…milord?"

"No lord," grunted the Hound. Either, he hadn't noticed the look she gave him or he knew to hide his own reaction. Mayhaps he had the experience to expect it. "Food," he said. "And ale. At least five mugs."

The maid curtsied, but didn't leave without another good look. Arya gave her a scathing glare on the way. The Hound removed his gauntlets and loosened his sword belt with a grunt. "Don't expect me sober tonight," he murmured. "Keep your eyes open."

Arya stiffened when the tavern door opened and a group of loud clamouring men entered the room. They were armed and obviously soldiers of a wealthy house because they were well equipped and clad. One of them, a tall blonde with pockmarks, met her eye and leered and she quickly looked away. But all of a sudden, she was nauseous. Because one of them had a sigil on his breastplate; the two stone towers of House Frey.

She watched as they scanned the room, eyes briefly landing on the unusually large man by her side, but moving on without lingering. The Hound seemed to relax next to her, indifferent as long as he wasn't recognised and completely absorbed in the ale the maid had brought. Typical.

Arya watched as the men spread out around the hearth as though they owned the place. When the barmaid brought their food, she was deep in a fantasy where she single-handedly brought each of the men to their end with her blade.

The Hound worked messily and steadily on his meal and managed to finish it in an ungodly short time. Under normal circumstances, she might have needled him about having the manners of a hog, not that her insults ever seemed to upset him much. But she didn't care just then. The men on the other side of the room were talking to the barmaid, making grabby hands and probably bragging about having slain the King of the North. Cocksuckers, the lot of them. Backstabbers and traitors. Arya pressed her nails into her palms, almost hard enough to draw blood.

"Aren't you eating?" The Hound nudged her. It was probably only meant to get her attention, but his elbow nearly unseated her from the bench.

"Watch it, you big oaf."

"You should have that," he said, nodding at her plate. "It's chicken."

"I'm not hungry." She pushed the plate away, her gaze never leaving the men by the hearth.

He hesitated only briefly before bringing the plate over to himself. She could feel his eyes on her.

"They weren't there," she heard him say through mouthfuls. "These ones came from the north. Look at their boots and cloaks. Just a scouting party, more like."

"Are you really going to eat all that?" She threw him a disgusted look. How could he even think about eating now?

He drained the ale in one go, belched, and stuffed as large a piece of bread into his mouth as he could manage, grinning in her face. "Only dumb cunts turn away good food and drink," he said when he could speak again. "You're the one who'll go hungry and thirsty."

"Dumb cunts who drink too much can't fight properly."

He stilled. Watched her for a bit before returning to his plate.

"They're too many, you realise that?" He glanced across the room, chewing. "They have armour. Good steel." He nodded at the men nearest the door. "See that? Those two have spears and shields."

"So?"

He grunted. "I can't manage them all."

She counted six. He had taken out four Lannister men the day she killed Polliver. Granted, two of those had been young boys and at one time, when the men had him on his back, she had though he was done. But these rats deserved his wrath so much more.

"You're a useless lump of garbage then," she mumbled. It didn't bother her if she were being unfair to him, she just wanted this so badly. "What a shit kidnapper you are if you can't even stand up to a few lousy scabs."

"I'm not getting myself stabbed and beaten because you want re…" He looked down at his -Arya's- plate. Sighed. Turned towards her with his elbow on the table. "I know you're miserable," he said, "but-"

"Shut up." The gentleness was too much and completely uncalled for. She stood and punched him on the cheek, uncaring about the burst of pain up her knuckles. "_Shut the fuck up_."

He recoiled slightly and that made her feel good. The racket, however, had drawn the attention of the Frey men, who started hollering at the Hound.

"Feisty bitch you got there," one of them called out.

"Inclined to share?" asked another. "I like it rough."

Arya ran from the room as fast as she could, bursting out the door and into the night. She hoped they would all fight and kill each other, but if she didn't have such luck and anyone of them, including -no, _especially-_ the Hound, dared follow her, she would gut him herself.

But there wasn't really anywhere for her to go. Not on her own. After drifting along the outskirt of the wood for a time, she walked back towards the stables.

The Hound must still be inside drinking, because both horses were there. She gave the Hound's crazy stallion a wide berth and went over to Craven, burying her sore knuckles in the mare's mane. They ached; she must have hit his teeth. "Stupid, the lot of them," she told the horse. "I wish they were all dead."

Craven nickered good-naturedly and blew air into her face. "You're a better match for him." Arya stroked her neck. "Just as cowardly the both of you." But of course, the horse was too well-bred for the likes of the Hound. She was dainty and nimble. He didn't deserve a steed like that, nor could she have carried him far.

The heavy courser in the far booth tossed its black head angrily, as though it knew she was thinking ill of its master.

Arya stayed there in the stable for a time, curled up in the hay next to Craven's feet and devoting herself to the task of not shedding tears. She didn't get up until a huffing and shuffling noise outside alerted her that someone were coming. There was no point unsheathing Needle, because she knew from the heavy tread that it was him.

"Girl?"

He lumbered into the stable, reeking of alcohol and blood. She wondered if he would beat her for hitting him earlier, but found that overall, she didn't care either way.

"I'm not talking to you."

He looked over the wall into Craven's stall and she heard him sigh. "I brought you something,"

Even in the sparse light, she could see the fat bruise her fist had left on his cheek. She was about to skulk away, but noticed that he was somewhat out of breath and holding something heavy in his hand.

She pushed Craven's head out of the way to peer at him. "What?"

"Here." He held up a decapitated head. It was dripping with still warm blood. She blinked.

"You said they were too many..."

He shrugged a shoulder. "He went out for a piss."

Her eyes narrowed. "Only one?"

He nodded. Craven startled when he lifted the head into the stall to let it thump down on the ground in front of her.

"They would have killed me," he said. "Then you'd be all alone."

Arya watched the head at her feet; recognised the blonde hair and pockmarked skin. Watched the Hound as he leaned his arms on the low wall that separated them. Watched the mangled head some more. She frowned.

"I am alone." She said it to punish him, but it came out weaker than she had intended.

"Aye." He looked away. "We can't stay. They'll know it was me."


End file.
